


The Book Hunter

by kihadu



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Orlais
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kihadu/pseuds/kihadu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Kirkwall, Fenris finds a job in Orlais, working for a bookstore hunting down rare tomes. He's made friends, has a place to live, has a lover, enjoys his job. Life is good.</p><p>And then, years after their breaking up, Hawke shows up in his life asking for a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully writing this will get me over this shattering lack of self confidence I've developed in regards to my writing. 
> 
> The original prompt is [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15999.html?thread=61608319).

He’s lithe like a dash of silver moon reflecting on fast water, a handsome fae to Mahdon’s solid bulk, wide shoulders and thick thighs. Mahdon tries his best to keep his step light but always it is Fenris a whisper in the dark, while he struggles to remember which boards creak underfoot.

He’s in love. Admits he is in love and does his best to continue onwards. Fenris has given him no interest, has instead made half-aborted attempts to explain about a relationship he is having with a woman a few blocks over. The woman, Mahdon knows, is an elf. Older than Mahdon so it must be species, or the gender that keeps Fenris politely ignoring Madhon’s awkward flirting.

Mahdon is heavyset and balding, so much grey in his hair that he does not always recognise himself in the mirror. He works in the cool dark basement that keeps a steady temperature in protection of the books he has Fenris hunting for. Upstairs is the store itself, and upstairs again is the apartment where he and Fenris sleep. Occasionally, he is sure, Fenris’ paramour sleeps there also, but he has only heard soft echoes in the early dawn. Elves, he thinks. They come and go without leaving a trace.

Except Fenris. Mahdon had met him and immediately panicked. He knows himself and knew, on meeting Fenris, that while he might leave the sheets washed and the bed neatly made up, window opened a crack to leave the air fresh, he would not leave Mahdon without a small bit of heartbreak. He had worried that Fenris would have gone by the end of the week, and then the month, and then the month after.

Half a year passed and then a whole one, and still Mahdon wakes to find water above a fire steadily coming into life, Fenris with his armour on the table and squinting at the work he would have to complete that day. Sometimes he was not there; gone for days or weeks at a time hunting down some obscure title a client had desperate need of. He always squints to read, Mahdon’s scrawl eternally messy and, he’ll admit, he’s made little enough attempt to rectify that. He likes seeing Fenris like this, hair fluffy from sleep and shirt not quite pulled square, glaring with some confusion at the jumble of letters.

Sometimes he’ll give up with a sigh, and turn to make their morning tea. ‘What’s this one, today?’ he’ll ask, and Mahdon will start on slicing meat for their breakfast while he explains. The book is called _Hermetic Philosophy_ , or _Kefkk’s Expedition To Estwatch And Beyond: A Study of Magical Flora and Fauna_. It was last seen in Bastion, or in a stronghold near the Tirashan forest. The map’s in the drawer, probably.

And Fenris will nod, and they will eat their breakfast before Fenris puts on his armour, and takes the unreadable list. ‘I’ll be back,’ is what he usually says. Sometimes he’ll take money from the pot on the table near the door; other times he’s already got a pouch on his belt, next to the crest he wears, but does not explain.

Mahdon will finish his tea and breakfast to the sound of Fenris down in the stable. The horse is a recent acquisition, necessary after Mahdon’s sister did their bi-yearly finances and declared Fenris was spending more on transport than was entirely necessary. It took a little longer to convince Fenris of this matter, but he had eventually warmed up to the beast.

And then Mahdon is left alone in the house thinking only of those last terse words: I’ll be back.

He puts his dirty dishes on the bench and goes back to bed. No need to be awake yet; it’s not often someone needs a rare tomb before midday. He only wakes so early to see Fenris off.


	2. Chapter 2

This dungeon is filled with undead, and spiders, and when Fenris comes out with the book in his pack there’s a bear waiting for him. _Isn_ _’t It Odd?_ is the title of the book, and it’s a skinny small thing, and Fenris knows enough about his business to be able to make a guess about not only when it was made, but where. He kills the bear but leaves it whole, pelt and all, to be devoured by the creatures of the region.

The horse is further down the stream, safely hidden by trees but untethered to run in case of sudden attack. Fenris could not forgive himself if the mare was harmed by his insisting on a hobble or a tie.

He cleans the sword, the armour, and makes a small fire. It is early yet, and luxurious that he already has completed his task for the day. If he were overeager he could return to Val Royeaux by midnight, but he is not. The weather is fair and the dungeon held more than the book; he is paid in board and lodging and a steady wage atop all that, but in addition he is allowed to keep whatever trinkets he finds. Mahdon has little enough interest in things not books, though Fenris does give him a portion of the coin, when he finds it.

The rest, well, he has spent time enough with people like Isabela to know how to sell little statues and old earrings, a good enough eye to guess at the price of artefacts and to know when they can go direct to market or if he should call up one of Mahdon’s friends to appraise the piece before he finds a buyer.

He’s collecting enough money that he could almost consider buying an apartment in the city, even one near the University. He has considered, in the past, leaving Mahdon’s spare room behind and renting a place all his own, but then he imagined telling Mahdon he was leaving and could not stomach the betrayal he’d face.

In any case, he likes it. There is running water that’s sometimes hot, the shop is near enough to bars and restaurants that when they have not cooked they can go out with ease, close enough to Theasra that he can go to her and return to his own bed all before midnight. And he likes knowing that someone else is alive in the house, likes knowing that when he returns he is returning to someone, even if it is just his employer.

Not that it is just his employer.

The next morning he wakes with the birds a little before dawn, his horse snuffling at the blankets pulled around his face against the cool air. A comfortable ride puts him back in the city by midday, horse washed and in her yard, him bathed and fed and redressed in proper clothes by the time the sun was contemplating the horizon again.

The Divine Barrel is far cleaner than The Hanged Man, light and airy, incense dangling from rafters so the smell of beer is not the first thing that hits him; instead he can smell food, can hear laughter, his friends by the bar and so many that they’ve spilled over to one of the tables. He’s greeted with grins and smiles, and he accepts a glass of wine from Harvel, kisses Selasan’s cheek in return, and takes a seat between the twins Lawen and Derill.

He had never thought to be so accepted by elves; to be so accepting of them, but here he is, drinking wine made by city elves and surrounded by people with flat noses and pointed ears, Orlesian littered with elvish, some of them tattooed and some of them not.

They do not ask about the lines on his skin. Do not ask about his history, do not ask about where he has come from, what his scars were caused by. He swears, sometimes, in Tevene, and they are not fools. But they are kind, and do not ask, and do not need to ask. They are all elves, here. They all know.

He’s been away four days and much has happened, and nothing at all. The gossip is light and airy. He is the one with the death-defying job, and he’s embarrassed by the attention when he tells Derill’s new girlfriend what he does for work.

‘It must be so dangerous,’ she says, half awed, and he remembers Kirkwall, remembers Anders and Hawke and Merrill and he nods, and forces a smile.

‘Fighting spiders? Easy as pie,’ he jokes. ‘You’ve just got to cut off their legs.’

‘Legs? But there’s so many.’

‘Ah, don’t you worry,’ says Derill, hooking her arm over Fenris’ shoulders. ‘He looks skinny but he’s hard as a rock. And he wouldn’t be doing anything else, would you?’

‘Nothing safer,’ Fenris agrees.

It takes long enough for him to say his farewells that he always says he must leave far earlier than he has any mind to go. Half an hour later and he is only just standing up.

Elialle is getting ready for bed when he arrives at her door. The house is closer to a mansion, but Orlesian, no memories of Kirkwall waiting inside. Her husband is long dead but memories of him are fresh throughout the house. Fenris has never begrudged her this; he still wears Hawke’s favour. Still considers red to be _his_ colour. Hawke’s colour.

The servant greets him by name and does not lead him upstairs. The hallway is thickly carpeted, the walls lined with Elialle’s family-by-marriage. Not all of them are human, and their painted smiles watch as he knocks on Elialle’s bedroom door.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she says, and kisses him on the mouth. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Today,’ he says. She runs her tongue over her lips, tasting the wine he’s been drinking. ‘Should I have called ahead?’

‘Maybe,’ she says. She’s older than him by over a decade, and teases him for being young enough that sex is still a necessity rather than a luxury. He weathers the teasing in good humour; elvish though she might be she has never seen reflections of the life he has lived, has no idea of the battle he’s fought within himself to get to the point where he can arrive, unannounced, and ask.

He makes to apologise but she’s having none of that.

‘Stay,’ she says. Her hand finds his, tracing down his wrist and palm to interlace their fingers together. ‘You always make the bed more comfortable.’

He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her knuckles.

‘But of course, my lady,’ he says, and closes the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written enough that I imagine an update will come every 1-3 days.

Back in Kirkwall he had little enough in the way of hobbies, never sure what to do to fill his free time and always guilty for having it. Here, it’s nearly dinner and he’s lounging in the shop while Mahdon works on restoring his latest acquisition, _The Ritual Communion of the Warriors of Desolation_. 

It’s the only one left in the world, and Fenris spent well over four months hunting it down, writing to contacts and waiting on replies, chasing up leads only to find they were dead ends. Not a lot of blood spilled but a lot of sweat, and a lot of late nights, long journeys. A lot of waiting. 

It’s a very pretty book, elegantly bound and beautifully drawn, with a few comments in the margins made by previous owners, the copyist themselves having made a few notes on the text or the ink or, on one page, an explanation for the tear right through the centre. Once neatly stitched Mahdon is taking the moulded string out and replacing it with fresh cream-coloured cotton. 

The bell above the shop door tinkles and Fenris lifts his eyes from the book he is browsing, more for the pictures than the words; he has never become so comfortable with reading to apply himself avidly to the occupation. 

The visitor is Selasan, which has Fenris leaping up with concern. She’s never come to the shop. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks. 

She looks at Mahdon, and then at him, and Fenris ushers her upstairs with an apologetic look at Mahdon. He looks at them suspiciously, and a little bit hurt, but he doesn’t protest. It’s a common enough expression, when reminded that Fenris has other friends. 

Fenris has considered inviting him along to the bar, except Mahdon’s human and Fenris' friends would be uncomfortable. He does go out with Mahdon, anyway, and joins Mahdon with his friends. Lunches and dinners and long weekend discussions about books and history, conversations that give him a much-loved opportunity to expand what he knows without having to struggle through delicate pages of information. 

Over those languid meals he gets to try his tongue at languages unlearned and languages half-learned, and without being an academic he loves the taste of academia on his tongue. Enough that, once, when Mahdon wondered out loud if he ever wanted to properly attend the university, Fenris had not outright dismissed the idea. He would not, of course, too much structure and too much reading, and he loves knowledge but he loves it as much as he loves tramping through the dangers of the wild. 

Upstairs, he sets Selasan down and sits opposite her at the table. 

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, again. 

‘There was a human asking about you,’ she says. ‘Caras heard it working in the market. Elf with white tattoos, and it could be Ilhon but it’s probably you.’

Fenris is used to this but not so used to it that he doesn’t go stiff-scared and angry. ‘Describe the human,’ he commands. 

‘It’s a man. Tall,’ she says, which helps not at all. Fenris barely broaches five feet and Selasan is only an inch taller than he. Everyone is tall. ‘Black hair. Not Orlesian.’

‘Tevinter?’

‘No,’ she says, and corrects, ‘I don’t think so.’

There are more than a handful of men who might come to Val Royeaux to hunt Fenris, but no matter who it is Fenris doesn’t want to see any of them. 

‘Keep me updated,’ he says, but she’s shivering a little. He leans forward to touch her hand. ‘Are you alright?’

‘It’s just not fair,’ she says. ‘You’re here to be happy and they keep following you.’

A drunken night of revelations and he told her some of his story. Not entire; the Champion has a level of fame Fenris does not care to match, but if his friends have ever made the connection they’ve never told him as much. Unconsciously his fingers tighten enough that her dark hands turn pale where he’s gripping them. 

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘And if they want to take me, I’ll kill them.’

She grips back just as tight. ‘But what if you can’t?’ Her brother, Lituaen, was taken. Others, too. They are elves; they are never safe. Him less than the others, maybe, but he is better at fighting.

‘I’ll kill them,’ he promises. It’s testament to their situation that she is not horrified by his determination. 

‘I just hate it. It’s not fair. And no one does anything.’

There’s a tap at the door. Mahdon looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but still he asks, ‘Is everything alright?’ His gaze is on where their hands are joined. 

‘Fine,’ says Fenris. His tone is too harsh. ‘Thank you, though.’

‘Wait,’ says Selasan, surprising him. She keeps sitting but looks at Mahdon with a fierceness that Fenris has never seen in her before. ‘You’re human, but you’re good. You need to be on the lookout. A human has come here searching for Fenris.’

Mahdon looks at Fenris. 'Alright,’ he says, not quite understanding. 

‘Just tell them I’m not here,’ says Fenris. ‘I’m away, or left a long time ago. Don’t put yourself in danger for me. Either of you.’

‘But,’ Selasan tries to say. 

‘No,’ he insists. ‘I’ve been hunted before. People have died protecting me before, I won’t have you hurt.’ He looks at Mahdon, worried that perhaps this is what will make his friend realise who he’s given shelter to. But his friend is only nodding. 

‘Alright,’ Mahdon says. ‘Do you maybe want a job out of the city for a while?’

Fenris weighs the benefits of being away against the dangers of not being able to protect his friends. ‘Yes,’ he eventually decides. ‘That might be better.’ 

And, because slavery is technically illegal in Orlais, he leaves immediately to make arrangements with the local guard to keep an eye on the house. They like him, are amused by his job as a book-guard, and he likes them for reminding him of Donnic.

He leaves the city before dawn, a list of books and a list of locations, bag packed for a month on the road. He worries, and worries, but he doesn’t look back. He has resigned himself to a life always like this, always an eye over his shoulder, always his heart a fraction too fast. 


	4. Chapter 4

Elialle is no fool. Maybe ignorant but not idiotic, she knows Fenris’ job is not safe but also knows his scars are not all from seeking forgotten books in dangerous places. They’re both elves but he has lived more lives in his years than she in hers. She was born free, married well, and was left all her late-husband’s belongings without ever having to argue her rights to them. Fenris, she knows, has had to argue his right to his own life. 

She’s having tea with her friends, Lady Moreau in the midst of a tale of woe regarding her son’s latest adventures, when the server comes up with a bit of paper on a silver tray, and without picking it up Elialle knows. 

She reads it anyway. 

‘My dear,’ says Alia, ‘You look pale.’

Rita takes hold of the situation. ‘Fetch her some brandy, immediately,’ she instructs. The server hastens away. She leans forward. ‘Darling, what is it?’

‘Fenris,’ she says. ‘He’s in danger.’

‘He wrote to you, here?’ Lady Moreau asks. Normally Elialle would forgive the slight - Lady Moreau has met Fenris only in passing, and any brief glimpse would not create the idea of a thoughtful person writing ahead of trouble. 

‘Yes,’ she says. She takes the brandy offered her, in a delicate teacup painted over in roses, and drinks it with one swallow. ‘If any of you see a human asking about him, you are to say nothing. Refuse to say anything at all. You have never heard of him.’

‘Of course,’ Alia assures her. ‘Where is he? Is he safe?’

‘He’s gone away for a while. But he’ll be back.’ She reads the paper to make certain he will. 

‘Oh, my dear,’ Rita says. ‘I was going to ask you anyway, but now you must come with me to my château. It will take your mind off things, and if any nasty people come asking you won’t be here to be asked.’

Rita’s human, but sympathetic and curious in a way that leaves Elialle knowing that she truly doesn’t feel any prejudice. Elialle had known the invitation was coming and planned to refuse it, but with the possibility of danger replacing the possibility of Fenris she finds there is little enough in the city to hold her here. 

‘The art exhibition,’ she remembers. ‘I must be back for that.’

‘I won’t kidnap you for three weeks,’ Rita laughs. 

‘Then I accept,’ Elialle says. But she rereads the note, and doesn’t feel much better. 

 

.

 

Fenris returns over a month later. He has enough books that he’s bought a pony to carry his luggage, the little thing following close on the heels of the mare. His plans to sell the pony have been ruined by it and his horse becoming best of friends, to the point that he feels a little guilty not getting her a companion earlier. 

He comes back at night, knife in hand and so tense his mare dances besides him, shod hooves clip-clopping loudly on the cobbles while the faint sounds of midnight revelry reach his elvish hearing.

Nothing closer. Still, he is nervous. He comes to the shop through back alleys and sneaks in as quietly as he can, shuts the stable doors up so it looks as though there are no horses here at all and hopes they keep quiet. He leaves the books behind the counter in the shop and avoids the creaky floorboards on his way to bed. 

In the morning, Mahdon nearly throws a plate at him, so startled by his presence. 

‘Nothing,’ he says, when asked. ‘No one’s come here. I asked your friend, but she said she’s heard nothing, either.’ 

Safe, Fenris thinks, but does not feel it. 

He makes Mahdon take the horses to the rented yards nearer the outskirts of the city, and stays inside all day. He does send a letter to Elialle, and receives in return an immediate summons. 

She hugs him fiercely, and sits him down to a meal more elaborate than he has seen in weeks. 

‘You always loose so much weight, travelling,’ she chides. They are sitting on the same side of the table in the breakfast room, a table big enough for a reasonably sized family, but she cannot seem to refrain from touching him. ‘Eat, eat,’ she says, and tells him all about her month away from him, the art exhibition and her time in the country, the gossip of the nobles and brutal reviews of the things she’s been reading. 

‘Has anyone,’ he begins. 

‘No,’ she interrupts. 

‘I don’t know if that’s better.’

‘It’s always worrying when the spider in your bedroom disappears,’ she agrees. 

Two weeks more of this anxiety, and then the news again: the human is male, and neither from Tevinter or Starkhaven, and definitely not Orlesian. He is now asking for Fenris by name rather than description. His friends are scared of the man and scared for Fenris. 

He cannot be having with that, but neither does he want to go about seeking any kind of trouble. There are laws in Val Royeaux, and his connections are not so great that he can flaunt a disregard for them. Murder is more in his past than his present, and he’d prefer to keep it that way. 

Mahdon is minding the store and Fenris is doing a little restorative work on one of the tomes picked up in his most recent travels. Practice on skin leaves his hand steady, stitches neat. Sometimes he catches Mahdon watching him but he does not mind the looks, so long as they are only that. Flattering, sometimes, and other times painful to know he is putting his friend in such an uncomfortable position. Nothing he can do, or is willing to do.

He likes Elialle enough that while he knows their relationship is more arrangement than till-death, but has no desire to have it ended yet. She is comfortable, and kind, and he’s had a great love before to know what it’s like. To know the misery it entails. With Elialle there is no such downfall in his future, and he sleeps easily because of it. Some knows his life might be called dull, but he is contented, and would have it no other way. 

When the bell rings he does not look up; he is rubbish at talking potential clients into becoming paying customers, and after some terrible attempts Mahdon forbade him ever trying again.

‘Fenris,’ says a voice. Fenris startles, the visitor a silhouette against the doorway still closing. The shape is familiar. The stance is familiar. And, when the door swings closed and Fenris can see the man’s face it is no one he is friends with but still he knows that face well as he knows his own. 

‘Hawke,’ he breathes. 

‘Is everything alright?’ Mahdon asks. He asks in Orlesian. 

‘This is the man who has been looking for me,’ says Fenris, in the same language. A flicker of irritation over Hawke’s face, chased fast by a wealth of hurt. That he is being cut out of the conversation, that Fenris is ignoring him; Fenris doesn’t care, and does, and stubbornly keeps on in a language he knows Hawke cannot understand. ‘He’s not a slaver.’ He wants Hawke gone without conversation but knows that is wishful thinking. ‘We’re going to talk in the stable.’

‘If there’s loud noises I’m calling the guard.’

‘There’s going to be shouting,’ Fenris warns. ‘But if anyone gets hurt, it’s going to be him.’

Hawke has hurt him more than enough already. 

He puts the book down with reverent care and leads Hawke out onto the street, and then into the stable rather than through the door direct in the shop; no need to show the man more of his life than necessary. 

Hawke looks around as though the clean insides of the stable are worth enamoured examination. 

‘What are you doing here?’ Fenris growls.

‘Searching for you.’

‘Why?’ Implicit in that is the accusation: you left me. 

And he had, and he had no right to come back now, when Fenris is happy. 

‘I love you.’

The words hurt. They hurt more than Fenris thought they would, hearing them again, seeing Hawke’s face and watching his lips form the words. 

‘And I owe you something, for that?’

‘No.’ It’s said hastily. ‘No, of course not. I won’t be that person. I just thought – I miss you. How are you?’

‘Fine,’ says Fenris. 

Hawke waits on an elaboration that Fenris does not care to give. 

‘How long have you been here?’

‘A while. What do you want?’

‘To talk to you.’

‘You have. Now go.’

‘I want – Fenris, please. Are we back where we started?’

‘No,’ says Fenris. ‘We’re not. We broke up. We’re far beyond where we started. We’re over. Your words, to me.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry.’

‘Two years and now you want to apologise? Bah,’ he dismisses Hawke. ‘Get out of here. Stop scaring my friends by asking about me.’

‘I came to Orlais for you,’ Hawke whines.

‘You want congratulations?’

‘Dinner. A drink. Something.’

‘You get this,’ says Fenris. He wants Hawke gone but despite himself cannot come to force him away. He gives in, minutely. ‘Talk.’

‘I didn’t want to leave you.’

That’s insulting, and more than. Fenris had fought, yelled. Followed Hawke doggedly until Hawke had given him no choice in the matter. No chance to follow. 

He folds his arms over his chest. ‘Made it pretty clear you wanted me gone.’

‘You were going to die for me. I couldn’t have that. I didn’t want you dead.’

‘You’d rather me heartbroken and alone than happy?’

‘No – I. Really?’

He sounds so hopeful about Fenris’ misery that Fenris snarls. ‘What are you hoping for, coming here?’

‘Another chance.’

‘I have someone,’ he says. It’s true, and not true. Elialle is not someone in the same sense that Hawke was once his someone, but neither could he, in good conscious, take Hawke to bed now without ending things with her first. 

Not that he is going to. Not that he wants to.

Hawke is still the same broad-shouldered, muscled man he always has been. A few more lines on his face, a heavier tan. The cut of his shirt is different and there is a bit of grey in his hair. 

Fenris remembers wrapping his legs around that waist, pushing him against the wall. 

Shakes his head to clear it, and turns away. 

‘Go,’ he says. ‘You should not have come.’

‘Is it serious? This other man?’ The jealousy is obvious, and gives Fenris no joy.

‘We have been together nearly a year.’ A shock to realise it’s true. More a shock to realise he has been here, in this building, for over a year. 

‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing,’ says Fenris. He doesn’t believe himself. ‘You’ve already done it.’ 

And Hawke has, he’s ruined them irreparably, but when he cannot sleep Fenris thinks of Hawke, and when he gets himself off in the privacy of his own room his best orgasms, the ones guaranteed to leave him content and calm, are the ones had to memories of the two of them together. And when he wakes in the morning and puts on the tea, it is a rare morning he does not wish Hawke was the one coming to have the other cup. It is broken, unfixable, but with Hawke in front of him things do not seem so impossible. 

‘Oh,’ Hawke says. He looks finally cowered, finally beaten. Fenris hopes and fears that he will stop fighting and leave. And then he says, ‘Can we be friends?’

Fenris doesn’t want to be friends. He wants to marry him or nothing, wants to keep him forever or have him not at all. With anyone else friendship feels like a blessing; with Hawke it’s a consolidation prize. 

‘Sure,’ he finds himself saying. ‘If you want to stay in Orlais.’ Hawke makes a face, but looks delighted all the same. ‘Are you travelling with anyone?’

He’s not sure what he’ll do if Hawke is here with Anders. 

‘No,’ says Hawke. ‘Not even Jatson.’ 

‘He’s still alive?’ Fenris blurts, incredulous. The dog was comfortably middle aged when they first met; Fenris knows little enough about the lifespan of dogs but knows he must be ancient by now. 

‘Yes, and doing well,’ Hawke chuckles. ‘He’s with Aveline. Riley loves him. Ernest isn’t so sure, yet.’

Fenris hasn’t met Ernest, but knows Riley, and receives infrequent mail from Aveline about her two children, about the city, about herself and her husband. He knows Aveline would not have told where Fenris is, but there still remains the question: ‘How did you find me?’

‘You’re a noticeable elf.’ This, said with a leer that is so familiar Fenris feels himself blushing out of habit. He glares through it. ‘I’ve been searching for you since the winter.’ In an obvious attempt to garner good favour he adds, ‘You’re not very easy to find. You’re safe, I think.’

‘But you found me.’

‘I know you.’

And just like that, Fenris is done for the day. ‘Go away.’

‘Can I come back?’

Fenris wonders if he would actually stay away if Fenris told him to. But neither is he sure that he would seek Hawke down if they made arrangements in the other direction. He is not sure he wants him gone. Now that he’s seen him again, he’s afraid that if Hawke walks away that will be the last of it. 

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But not tomorrow.’ He has nothing to do tomorrow, but he does not want that nothing to be filled with Hawke. He needs to figure out how to swallow this. Needs to figure what outcome will leave him happy.

Hawke takes a step forward and with some horror Fenris realises he intends to offer a hug. He takes a hasty step backwards. Ignores the pained expression he is given, and watches until the door is closed solid behind him. 

After a moment, he goes to lock it. Just in case. 

Mahdon looks bursting with questions but doesn’t ask. For his part, Fenris goes to the short shelf where they sell a handful of books still in publication, and takes down a copy of Varric’s book. It is one of two in the building; the other is in his own room, signed.

His friends sometimes talk about the Champion. Awed conversation, nearly the same reverence some wear to discuss Andraste. 

Fenris’ name is the same and the description makes it obvious, but the elves he knows seem not to have made the connection, or politely keep it quiet, and its history is too recent for Mahdon or those of his circle to care. 

Fenris puts the book down on the table next to where Mahdon is working. 

‘Have you read it?’

‘No,’ says Mahdon. 

‘You should,’ says Fenris. ‘At least chapter four.’ It’s easier than telling the story himself.

‘Are you alright?’

‘No,’ says Fenris. 

Mahdon gives him a look all gentle concern, so touching and lovely Fenris is overwhelmed by the love he has found in this city, his friends who care for him without cause or reason. He cannot leave, cannot think of leaving. 

‘Who is he?’ Mahdon asks. 

Fenris taps Varric’s book. ‘He’s the Champion.’


	5. Chapter 5

Mahdon reads the book immediately. The print is small to keep it to only one volume, and the writing is not very good. Occasionally the author falls into floral attempts at poetry; other times it is as dry as an encyclopaedia. Some sections are obviously made up, and other passages are so matter-of-fact the author almost seems bored as he recounts them. 

Mahdon reads from chapter one to four, and gets to the end and finds he’s breathing heavily with anxiety. He looks at the stairs leading to his home, can hear the noise of Fenris above him making dinner. 

Quickly, he flips forward until he finds another likely chapter. This is so private as to be nearly voyeuristic. It cannot be real. The Fenris he knows would not share such facts about himself, much less allow them to be written into something published across Thedas. He flips forward, starts reading and quickly finds himself uncomfortably tight in the trousers and blushing hard. It is not especially titillating, but he is not used to reading such things, and worse to know one half of the party. Painful, too, having seen the hope on the Champion’s face. 

He closes the book with a snap, and goes upstairs. 

‘You, and him?’

‘Yes.’

Fenris answers the question very easily. Mahdon feels guilty for the immediate irritation he feels, jealousy that matters very little in the scheme of things. 

‘Did you finish the chapters about me?’

‘I got up to,’ Mahdon is unable to say, exactly, where he got up to.

‘Ah,’ Fenris realises. He clears his throat, awkwardly. ‘Varric likes to… elaborate.’

‘I didn’t think you told him that sort of thing!’ Mahdon cries, and when Fenris bursts out with unexpected laughter he joins in. 

‘He tried! Assured me it would be a boring story without the racy bits, and when I told him where he could stick his bits he decided to make it all up. Well,’ he corrects. There’s an edge of pink to his cheekbones that Mahdon finds very endearing. ‘Not all of it.’

‘You and the Champion.’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened? Or should I keep reading?’ He doesn’t want to make Fenris talk about something that is so obviously beyond his comfort to bring to his tongue. 

‘It’s not in there. Varric ends it happily.’ Fenris has served dinner and they sit down. ‘Afterwards, everyone wanted for Anders’ blood.’

He’s not read that far but he knows that much. ‘The mage who killed everyone.’

‘Yes,’ Fenris growls. ‘Hawke refused to act as proper judge and executioner.’ A sigh. ‘I don’t know if I can blame him. Anders was my friend, I think. I wanted him dead but still do not know if I could have done it myself.’

‘You didn’t,’ Mahdon guesses.

‘No,’ says Fenris. ‘It was very dangerous travelling together. A lot of fights. I have been in a lot of fights but,’ he shakes his head. ‘Nothing like this. Nowhere was safe. No one could be trusted. It was exhausting.’

His shoulders are slumped and Mahdon wants to reach back through time to offer that Fenris some comfort. 

‘Hawke insisted I leave him. I refused, so he abandoned me. I woke up and he was gone, with Anders. And Isabela and Merrill, but he left me.’

‘What a shit,’ says Mahdon. 

‘Yes,’ says Fenris. ‘He was. Is. Wouldn’t have become the Champion if he wasn’t.’

‘Why did he come here? What does he want?’

‘Me. He wants me back.’

Mahdon opens his mouth to scoff at the suggestion, but realises Fenris is not doing the same. ‘You’re considering it.’

‘I shouldn’t, should I?’

‘No. He just up and left you?’

‘He didn’t want me hurt.’

‘I’ve seen the sword you swing,’ Mahdon protests. ‘No one can look at you and think you can’t handle yourself. What a shit,’ he repeats. ‘And you’re arguing for him.’

‘I know. No self-respect. Never had any.’

And in that moment he looks so thoroughly broken-down Mahdon puts down his spoon and slams his fist on the table. ‘Shut up. Don’t talk like that. You fought your way free and made yourself a life. He’s not good enough for you. Not if he treats you like that.’

Fenris looks at him through fingers interlaced over his eyes. ‘Would you hate me if I wanted him anyway?’

‘I could never hate you,’ Mahdon promises. ‘As your friend,’ he hastens to add, because that felt too much like a declaration of love and he’s wary of the conversation, ‘I could never.’

‘He’s stubborn,’ says Fenris. 

‘You’re worse. I don’t know him, but you’re worse. Never budge on anything once you’ve made your mind.’

‘I haven’t always.’

‘Slavery isn’t freedom to decide,’ Mahdon insists, though he can tell Fenris doesn’t completely believe him. Knows he’s right, maybe, but doesn’t believe. 

‘I don’t know,’ says Fenris. ‘I need to talk to Elialle.’

‘Who?’ Mahdon knows the name but only distantly, echoes of gossip about the nobles filtered through and kept unwillingly in the dregs of his memory. 

‘The woman I’m seeing. To end things. I can’t be with her while this is going on.’

‘Of course.’ Then, ‘Things are going to go on?’

‘If Hawke has his way.’ Mahdon doesn’t believe that’s an accurate statement. Fenris sighs. ‘If I have my way. Would you forgive him?’

‘For patronising me into a breakup?’

‘It is that, isn’t it?’ 

‘He’s your friend. You know him better than me. I only know what I read in that book.’ Which is a tall, handsome man before whom even the mountains tremble, a human so magnificent they’re more god than mortal, humorous where humour is needed, angry where anger is deserved, fair and just for all that he’s brutally haphazard in deciding his own path. 

If this is who Fenris has fallen in love with, Mahdon gives up. It’s freeing, a sudden release of interminable pain he thought had settled into his chest to live forever. Fenris is in love with another. Fell into it years before Mahdon ever had a chance. 

‘Varric paints him very prettily.’

‘Paints you all prettily.’

Fenris makes a face. ‘I don’t think he did that to me.’

‘He did,’ Mahdon promises. ‘A hero in your own right.’ And he’s barely started the book but he has lived with Fenris for the past year, and his romantic notions aside he knows Fenris. The man deserves a statue in his likeness, buildings made in his name. Constellations renamed for him. 

Fenris is still making a face, so Mahdon makes a face right on back, and they laugh at each other; mood broken into something easier to digest. 

‘I could give you a task outside of the city.’

‘I thought I finished that list. It’s all in-city exchanges and book-guarding for the next few weeks.’

‘If you wanted to avoid him I could make something up.’ But he realises, as he speaks, that Fenris does not want to avoid Hawke. ‘You’ll see him again? Hawke,’ he adds, as if they could be talking about anything else.

‘Not tomorrow. If he comes by tomorrow I’ll rip out his lungs.’ 

A turn of phrase Mahdon has heard before, but in light of the tales of the Champion the scales have fallen from his eyes and he sees his friend in a new light. 

He has always pretended that in seeking the rare tomes his hired mercenary kills things like spiders and wolves. He’s not quite sure how to go about reconsidering his friend as a real and proper murderer. He’s seen Fenris in nothing but his pants, bent over a bowl of water and scrubbing uselessly at a stain on his shirt.

‘Tea?’ he asks.

‘Herbal stuff that will send me to sleep,’ Fenris pleads. He looks wrung out. Mahdon takes pity on him and turns conversation to other things, idle topics like groceries and work. 

He realises, as he talks, that if Fenris does forgive Hawke it likely means he’ll be gone. Tragic for his business, but worse, when Fenris is not off hunting through far off places for half-rotted books, he’s here all the time and Mahdon likes the company. Likes Fenris’ company. He’s lived here his whole life but now he cannot imagine Val Royeaux without Fenris here, too. 

He frowns, but makes no mention of it. Goes to bed but does not sleep for a long while; can hear Fenris down the hall just as restless as he. 

What a day, and no end in sight. 


	6. Chapter 6

Elialle does not take it well. She’s confused and annoyed and hurt, and he spends half the time apologising and angry that he has to. Angry that Hawke has put this on him. 

‘What happens if you decide things are better without him? Am I expected to linger on the side, waiting and wishing?’

‘No,’ Fenris cries. ‘Venhendis. No.’

‘He’s messed you up.’

Fenris can only nod glumly; it’s the obvious truth. They’re standing in the parlour and all he wants to do is sink down into one of the plush chairs and hang his head.

‘And yet you are still willing to give him a chance?’ At that Fenris looks up sharply. Already on his lips is a harsh denial. ‘What is this meant to be, if not giving him a chance? Years and you haven’t even mentioned him, and now you walk in and tell me you are very sorry, but things must end between us while you figure it out.’

Fenris sags, defeated, cowed. He feels horrible. 

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. What’s his name, that I might talk some sense into him? You’re better than some boy who left you in the wilderness because he thinks you can’t look after yourself.’

‘Are you angry at him, or me?’

‘Him, for doing this to you. Again, it seems like.’

‘He saved me,’ he says, a whisper, hopeless. 

‘You saved yourself. Before you take him back you come to me and tell me exactly why.’

‘You think I will?’

‘If you didn’t want him you’d tell him never to come back.’

He relents; she’s right. She forgives him enough to not dismiss him at the end of that conversation, but she does not offer to refill his tea, and conversation is stilted and odd. 

‘Can I call again?’ he asks. He does like her. Respects her.

‘I think not,’ she says, and he nods. He feels foolish for asking, and mad as can be that Hawke has ruined this for him with his mere existence. Though, as Elialle said, he could have told Hawke to stuff it. Should have, probably. 

Idiotic that he did not.

He goes to the bar far earlier than he usually does and finds that none of his friends are there yet. He considers getting blind drunk but he hasn’t done that for years, and that was always in response to memories of Tevinter. Never Hawke. Never Kirkwall. 

When a familiar face does show he makes them talk more than he’s willing to, and only when there’s a decent number does he inform them that the particular human hunting him is not a concern. Not really. Bit of a personal bother, but his life and health are likely still stable. And then he lets himself lose thought of Hawke to the joy of their company, delighted that he can, delighted that he has found this all on his own. 

 

.

 

Book restoration is a tricky business, fiddlier than Fenris has the patience for, and usually he does bits and pieces in between whatever Mahdon is working on. He isn’t hired for this sort of thing, anyhow. Mostly he keeps Mahdon supplied with food and tea and company. 

Today, though, today two of Mahdon’s friends have popped past and the quiet day has turned rowdy. They’ve left the basement and come into the shop, sitting on the couches with food ignored in favour of talking. Fenris is having a fast conversation in Orlesian and Tevene, enjoying the rattle of words off his tongue. They’re so busy he does not notice the bell ring, and it's only Anatole speaking up that has him noticing their customer. Visitor.

Hawke. 

One of Mahdon’s friends recognises him also and ups with a leap, hands outstretched. 

‘The Champion of Kirkwall, what are you doing here?’ Clarisse shakes Hawke’s hand, kisses him once on each cheek. ‘A delight, truly. Come sit with us. Unless you are here for a book? Mahdon, this gentleman requires your assistance.’

‘I don’t,’ Hawke says. His hand still gripped by her he looks so awkward that Fenris’ immediate ire at having him interrupt the pleasant afternoon is settled somewhat. 

‘Forgive them,’ Clarisse says. ‘We all read ancient books, nothing so recent as your adventures. Sit, sit!’ She makes Hawke sit beside her, so Fenris is left staring directly at him. 

Fenris thinks he looks good washed in blood and pale from exhaustion, but here he’s full of colour, beard trimmed, shirt a tight compliment to his figure, still large as if he batters down doors and defeats demons on a daily basis. 

‘Tell us, what are you doing in Val Royeaux? A strange place for a Fereldan to willingly come.’ A few chortles. Clarisse pats Hawke’s knee comfortingly, and Hawke sends Fenris a desperate look that leaves him choking back a snort of laughter. Too late, and Clarisse notices. ‘Do you have an opinion on the Champion?’

‘Many,’ he says. ‘Have you read that book?’

‘About the Champion? Yes. Or do you mean that one written by the dwarf? Awful, even translated it’s not worth the time. No, I read a proper historical book about him. No doubt they left out a lot of what you as Fereldan would consider important.’ This, accompanied by another pat to the knee. ‘But it’s much easier to stomach. Why that dwarf bothered I don’t know.’

‘It’s really rather well received over the mountains,’ says Hawke. Fenris is struggling not to laugh so hard that he sure he is going to suffocate. Mahdon, beside him, is not fairing much better. 

‘What is it?’ Clarisse huffs, in Orlesian. 

‘I think Varric did a very good job,’ Hawke cries, unable to understand the question. ‘Fenris, tell her.’

‘I am not going to protest the good work of an absent dwarf. His fault for writing the bits I told him not to,’ he adds, slyly, and Clarisse claps a hand over her mouth. 

‘You’re _that_ Fenris?’

‘For some years, now,’ he says. 

‘And the Champion.’ She looks to the man at her side, eyes big as saucers. ‘Oh, Maker.’

Mahdon laughs then, a big laugh that has him clutching his belly, and Fenris joins in until his stomach aches. 

‘Yes,’ Mahdon manages, quieting first. ‘Fenris is that Fenris, the one from Kirkwall.’

‘Can someone explain?’ demands Emeric, in Orlesian. 

And so the story of the Champion is condensed into something the rest might care to hear, and Clarisse stares rigidly at Fenris – they’ve been friends this whole time he’s been here, her so immediately friendly he could not help but get along with her, and he feels a hint of betrayal still overshadowed with amusement at her reaction – her expression! He grins again to remember it, but stills when he realises Hawke is watching him. 

Emeric, disgruntled at conversation based on events so recent, drags Annick into a deconstruction of a poem only half found, one that Fenris has memorised and built his own theories on the location of the rest, and that conversation is had solidly in Orlesian, sacrificing Hawke to Clarisse. Fenris finds he does not feel guilty at all; these are his friends, his conversation, and he is allowed to have it. And better this, to force Hawke to see how happy he is without him. How well his life has gone. 

And eventually Hawke stands and says his farewells, looking lingeringly at Fenris in hope. Hope that Fenris dashes by remaining where he is and giving nothing more than a nod and a firm goodbye. 

‘Until next time?’

‘Not tomorrow,’ Fenris says. 

If he’s bothered by the demand Hawke has the good sense not to show it, and leaves with another tense smile Fenris automatically starts to return, only to remember, and shut it down. 


	7. Chapter 7

Having organised no specific time but still having a job of his own to complete, Fenris is on his way out when Hawke has decided to come see him, late enough in the afternoon to be close to dinner; he’s been in Orlais long enough he has to bite his tongue on the automatic invitation that threatens to spill out. 

Natural, here, that if someone visits near a meal then one is offered, and if someone visits and no meal is on the horizon then one will be made up. Wine with every course; cheese and sweets and pastries on hand always: life is too short to not spend it delighting every sense at every hour. 

‘Where are you going?’ said so sudden, it’s almost an accusation. 

‘Out,’ Fenris snaps. ‘I have a job.’

‘With wages, a regular dawn-to-dusk?’

‘Not quite,’ says Fenris. He locks the door behind him; Mahdon is at his sister’s for dinner, and Fenris has this errand to run abominably late in the afternoon. 

‘Well armed to carry a book,’ Hawke comments. 

‘I fought shades for this book,’ says Fenris. Hawke insists on falling in beside him. 

‘What is it that you do?’

‘Collect books,’ says Fenris. 

‘Varric rub off on you?’

‘Rare books,’ Fenris corrects, horrified that the pages in his hand might be compared to the utter tripe Varric bothers with. 

He is sent a copy of every new volume published, signed, and he won’t admit to reading them but he does. It leaves him feeling as though he has not really left Kirkwall at all; with nothing but a candle for light in the dark of his room and the window open for a draft he might have not, and Varric’s writing voice is not too far different to how he sounds when he talks. 

Fenris takes the path through the market, and Hawke is startled when a few people call cheery hellos to Fenris as they pack up their stalls for the evening. 

‘You’ve really made yourself at home here,’ he comments. 

‘My last one blew up.’ An unkind retort, but true, and no time like the present to rid themselves of this particular awkwardness between them. ‘How is he, anyway?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fenris scoffs. Hawke relents. ‘Not well. He has got a spirit living inside of him.’

‘Astonishing that doesn’t guarantee long health and happiness,’ Fenris says. ‘You’re still keeping him alive?’

‘Shouldn’t I?’

‘Send me away to keep me alive and keep him for the same?’

‘You’re jealous!’ Hawke cried. 

Wrong, and more wrong, and Fenris bristled. ‘I’m angry.’

‘That I didn’t kill him?’

Fenris clenches his jaw and wonders when they lost sight of what the other saw. ‘He was my friend, too.’

‘You talk as if he’s dead.’

‘Isn’t he? Justice isn’t keeping him alive, and Justice isn’t Anders.’ He stops, grits his teeth. ‘I do not hate you for not killing him. I could not have done it, either. But I think, perhaps, it would have been the kinder option.’ It’s something he’s thought, but not often, and only in private. None of his friends here are mages to care much for Anders himself; the glory goes all to Hawke, a refugee who brought a city to its knees before him. Here, in Orlais, he is often busy thinking of other things.

Fenris resumes walking. ‘But if you had then I would not be here.’ He muses it out loud, not rightly meaning to. 

‘You like it here?’

Someone passes by and gives another nod to Fenris; Harvel at the end of the day at his job, weary but strolling eagerly into the evening.

‘You’ll be there tonight?’ Harvel calls. 

‘Tomorrow,’ Fenris promises back. 

‘Be where?’ asks Hawke, as they continue onwards. ‘Am I invited?’

‘No,’ Fenris insists. It’s a distasteful thought, Hawke with that group of friends, least a foot taller and wide enough to be unable to share a bench. The mood would be shattered, the easy comfort of familiar company ruined by a strange human, even if they didn’t know who he was. Heroes are often better unmet. Fenris would be responsible for the poor night, and awkward because of it. 

‘Embarrassed by me?’

‘Frustrated by you,’ he growls, and it seems to have gotten through because the next noise Hawke makes is a small, soft ‘oh’. 

They make it to the house in silence, are waited on in the foyer by a servant, and once the exchange of book for money is made they are asked to dinner. Hawke tries to decline. Fenris, knowing the importance of politeness to maintain continued business, accepts. 

Hawke has two moods: the wild tale-teller, like a small boy eager to overshare his every action of the day’s adventures; or, a moody recluse, barely mustering the energy to mutter a response to the most cursory of questions. It is up to Fenris to hold the conversation above waters, which he does, and with ease that Hawke clearly finds astonishing. It’s been long enough that Fenris doesn’t find it so. He talks about Mahdon’s work and his own, answers queries about other tomes they have on hand or might have on hand in the future. 

Beside him, Hawke keeps his answers monosyllabic even when efforts are made to keep conversation in a language he knows. He’s sulking, Fenris realises, and takes great delight in agreeing not only to dessert but to drinks on the patio afterwards. 

The Eliots are elderly but in proper fashion they have their daughter and her husband living with them, their two children, and another family visiting. The result is loud and joyous, with children underfoot. Despite Hawke’s foul mood Fenris finds himself happy to be there together. It’s nice to have a presence at his side, to be part of a pair rather than alone in such a jumble of voices. And when, finally, they take their leave, Hawke is obviously surprised to be asked back, accented words so strong Fenris translates for him. 

‘Me? What?’

‘He’s a rude bastard but if we’re in the area I’ll drag him over,’ Fenris promises, more to keep them happy than out of any belief he’ll keep his word, and lets himself be pulled into kisses aplenty before finally leaving. 

Hawke is already out on the street, and looking overwhelmed. Fenris laughs, and shoves his hands into his coat pockets. ‘You’ve never been to Orlais.’

‘Is everyone so boisterous?’

‘Yes,’ says Fenris. ‘If you’re not a friend you’re going to be a friend, and if you’re already a friend then you’re obviously family.’

Hawke stares at him in wonder. ‘You like it here.’

‘Yes,’ Fenris says simply. Mahdon had made noises months before about Fenris leaving, and Fenris had stared at him in shock until Mahdon had shut up. He couldn’t fathom leaving. 

‘I have to learn Orlesian.’

The laugh that startles out of Fenris is loud. ‘You? Why?’

‘To stay here.’

Immediately sobered Fenris wishes his legs were longer so he could stride fast enough that Hawke would be the one struggling to keep up.

‘You don’t hate me, do you?’

Fenris wants to answer in the affirmative and have it be the whole truth, nothing but the truth. 

‘You left me,’ is what he says instead. 

‘I was trying to protect you.’

A patronising reason to abandon him, Mahdon had said. They’ve come to an intersection and Fenris has no desire to have Hawke walk him to his doorstep. 

‘As if I wasn’t trying to protect you,’ he fires back. ‘Good night.’ He takes a step and of course Hawke goes to follow. ‘No,’ he snaps. ‘Stay here.’ He holds out a hand as though he’s trying to command a disobedient dog, and the look he gives him is similar, head tilted with confused hurt. 

‘Day after tomorrow?’ Hawke asks, but Fenris does not care. Does not care if he ever sees Hawke again. 

‘Do what you like. You always do,’ he snarls, and stalks away fast as he can manage.  


	8. Chapter 8

‘How was last night?’ Mahdon asks over breakfast. 

‘I did two more pages on the Urtherford.’ He’d been so incensed leaving Hawke that he’d needed the work before bed to calm down, but done only that much for fear that longer would result in damage. 

‘I mean the Eliots.’

‘A very good evening. Money’s in the store. Lord Eliot asked about a copy of _Dills, Weeds and Others_.’

Mahdon makes a face. ‘Such an odd man.’

‘Eclectic,’ Fenris says, generously.

‘Eccentric. Do you know where it is?’

‘Haven’t spent much effort in trying to find it.’

‘Do,’ Mahdon insists. The Eliots are a fine family, good customers and better advertising. ‘There’s a shipment coming in. You need to collect a crate from the caravan at noon.’

‘Armour?’

‘Make a show of it,’ Mahdon hazards. In the city things are usually safe, but can quickly turn sour. 

Fenris has not killed anyone in a while but he has had to fight a few hired thugs to keep hold of books. Sometimes he really thinks about it and finds it bizarre, his job, but when compared to the effort put into finding and restoring old artworks, statues and ancient buildings, he thinks his job makes more sense. Those are mere culture, heritage locked into stone, but his holds information.

He collects the books and returns to the store, where Mahdon is talking a young couple into buying a book that is not very old or very rare, but it is very beautiful. Fenris waves, Mahdon nods, and Fenris steps out into the sun of the afternoon. 

He buys cake at a café and sits watching the people walk past, marvelling at the costumes, the airs and graces adopted by so many. The park is enticing so he takes a stroll, enjoying that he is the sort of person living the kind of life where he can eat cake and take a turn around a park. He sees a few familiar faces and pauses to chat inconsequential things in passing to them. 

It's here that he comes across Olinda, who is a paid servant to Marquis of Valmort. She’s walking the dogs, tiny things, mere snacks compared to the hulking beasts the Fereldans dote upon. They’re fast-paced and yappy, and leap at his shins with delight when he stops to talk to Olinda. 

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘Can’t stop,’ she says, so he falls in beside her. ‘The Lady has a party happening tonight. Have to walk these rascals so they seem well-tamed.’ They’re not well-tamed, wildly dashing about and nearly tripping Fenris as they go. ‘What’s this about your human?’

‘Who told you?’

‘Merelisse,’ Olinda grins. 

‘Are you back with her brother again?’

She makes a face, and slaps his arm. ‘No! Don’t be foul. But I’m still friends with Merelisse. And she said everyone thought you had a slaver after you, but instead it’s just an ex.’

‘He’d hate to be thought a slaver,’ says Fenris. 

‘Why is he here?’ He glumly does not answer. ‘Oh, Maker, he wants you. He wants you back? He came here, for you. That’s so romantic. Do you like him? Do you love him?’

‘He’s the rest of me,’ says Fenris, anguished. But he reconsiders, remembering how out of sync they’ve been, how cruelly Hawke turned him away. ‘He used to be.’ Shadows of each other, tit for tat, buy one get the other, but not now. Not anymore. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want to return to a relationship that meant so little that Hawke would abandon him, no matter what other factors. 

No matter that they were running for their lives, Anders more gone over to Justice than ever before, and Isabela with an infected cut that had her fevered most of the time. Constantly alert, constantly afraid of the noises in the trees. Fenris had been in the city long enough that he’d almost swallowed Varric’s stories of heroes fleeing, delightful tales of adventures in the woods, but the truth is nightmarish. 

‘We were over that,’ he says, out loud. Olinda makes a questioning noise but Fenris is tired of providing backstory to his life. ‘We’d had all the fights of not trusting each other. Mostly me yelling at him. I thought we were very clear about not leaving for anything. And then Anders blows up the Chantry and the whole world is a mess.’

A week of fights about Fenris finding somewhere safer to be – you don’t even like mages, and, for me, it would make me happy, please Fenris – and then one morning the bedroll beside his own was empty, the camp was gone, the fire smouldering, and he had been left behind. 

‘I don’t know if I can forgive him.’ A lie: he can. He just doesn’t know if he should. He doesn’t know if Hawke deserves it, if it would be cruel or kind to himself to forgive him. 

‘Do you love him?’

‘Yes,’ he says, and his voice breaks into enough of a sob that she stops despite the dogs, and hugs him. He’s not sure it’s what he needs but it what she needs to give him, so he weathers it, and with far more grace than he once weathered Isabela’s attentions. 

‘I don’t think anyone here will judge you for going back to someone who,’ she tries to remember, ‘is the rest of you. If you love him that much, and if you’ll be happy.’ She shrugs. ‘That’s all we want.’

‘I know,’ he says, and he does know. They’re good people, the friends he has here, supportive and kind. If he tripped over in the street and broke a leg he’d be turning away help rather than begging for it. 

Morose with thinking, he leaves her be and takes a turn of the park alone.

He cannot decide. He remembers early in their relationship, so many weighty decisions and never quite sure which one to pick, which card to flip over. And this is a good deal worse. He’s happy. By choosing the wrong path he can ruin it, and slowly, so slowly that he won’t notice until it’s all done. 


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris is stubbornly keeping to what must be his usual habits. Hawke follows as much as he’s able; he has little else to do in the city except keep company with Fenris, though he does, idly, start looking at houses. He mentions this in passing to Fenris, and next he knows the real estate agent refuses to talk to him. Tells him further dealing between the two of them will be bad for business. Despite himself Hawke is gleeful. Years out of the business and still Fenris knows how to pull strings. Inconvenient, of course, but Hawke’s got the coin to stick at the tavern a little while longer.

He trails Fenris about the city, like a puppy keeping close to the only familiar thing. Some days are hectic, other days sedate, and Hawke sees Fenris negotiating prices and refusing a sale, sees him stride self-importantly through crowded morning markets. Hawke tries to buy him things, snacks and trinkets, but does not push as he once might have, shoving things into Fenris' hands and marching away so Fenris was left with no choice but to take; Hawke is on his best behaviour, and seeing Fenris like this, well dressed and comfortable in this bustling, foreign environment, it only makes Hawke more desperate for this to work. Even their goodbyes hurt him, leave him worried that this is it, this is the last he’ll see of Fenris.

He does not deserve; he is fully aware of this. Donnic well and truly bullied that fact into his brain before he left on this absurd quest. Deserved or not, he wants, and hopes.

The end of each day has him asking, ‘Tomorrow?’ and Fenris, stubborn, shakes his head and says, ‘Day after.’

A week this goes on, every second day with Fenris, except one day where he arrives in the late afternoon hoping to catch Fenris at the end of his working day. Which, he is, but he is about to go out, he explains, and when Hawke tries to follow Fenris fixes him with a glare.

‘You’re going to stay here,’ he says, forcefully.

‘Tired of my brilliant company already?’ Hawke jokes, worried.

‘You’re not invited.’

He has a lover, Hawke remembers. Some man Hawke doesn’t know, has never seen. Friends and a job and a life that Hawke has no part in, and he almost leaves the city that night in depressed irritation. Petulant, a minor temper tantrum that has him brutally beating a group of men in a game of cards, and he takes the winnings and sulks in his room.

The next day finds Fenris with needle and thread and several piles of brown paper. Hawke goes to pick one up and his hand is slapped for his efforts.

‘This is four hundred years old,’ says Fenris, instead of hello, and Hawke sits in the uncomfortable leather chair opposite, and watches him.

‘How was last night?’ Hawke asks.

‘Hm?’ Fenris is concentrating, a focus to his face that is bizarre to see directed at needlepoint. ‘Oh, it was fine.’

Fine, fine, it’s always just fine. Hawke is impatient. He wants to know, has he achieved his objective? Can he stay?

‘Who is he?’

‘Who?’

‘Your lover.’

Fenris looks startled by the question, and looks unwilling to answer, which gives Hawke some hope. If he had no chance at all Fenris would surely be loud and clear about his relationship, pointing out all the ways Hawke cannot possibly fit again into his life.

In any case, whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by Mahdon. The man clearly does not like Hawke, and gives him a devilish glare even as he speaks to Fenris. Orlesian, of course, because Hawke is not allowed to join in their conversations. He has been trying to learn, asking people at the tavern different words, but he forgets them as soon as he learns them and this is another failure: Fenris knows so much, and Hawke is still just a refugee from Ferelden, nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and his willingness to draw blood if it means money in his own pocket. If he were a different sort of person it would drive him to despair.

Fenris makes a face at whatever Mahdon is saying. ‘Yes,’ he says, and then the rest of the words are ones Hawke does not recognise. They debate a moment. Mahdon nods firmly, and Fenris resumes stitching, but with finality to it, a sense that this is all he will achieve today on this task.

‘I’m going to Val Fermin,’ says Fenris. He glances up from the paper to look out through the narrow, yellow-paned window. It is still early, enough that a start now will get him a reasonable distance down the road.

‘Do you want company?’ Hawke asks. Val Fermin is far enough away that he would notice the lack of Fenris most keenly.

Fenris pauses in his stitching and gives him an appraising stare. ‘I leave in half an hour. If you have a horse suited to the journey by then, then certainly.’

A challenge, and Hawke’s never backed down from more complicated quests. He stands abruptly. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you here in twenty-nine minutes.’

It takes nearly all that time to find a suitable horse, to go to the tavern and collect his strewn mess of things back into a bundle suited to travel, but when he returns to the shop Fenris is not waiting impatiently. He is talking to an elvish man. Red hair in a braid falling apart in a delicious sort of way. This, perhaps, is his lover. At least Hawke cannot fault his taste. They stand very close, and when they part ways they kiss each other on the cheek. A habit, here, but not one Hawke is yet used to. He watches the elf suspiciously until he has disappeared around the corner.

‘That is your horse?’ asks Fenris.

Hawke nods, and stumbles a little when the horse uses his shoulder as a scratching post.

Fenris makes him wait a good quarter of an hour while he gets himself ready. Hawke, trying to remain on his best behaviour, does not complain, or even comment. While he waits Mahdon comes up to him, and glares at him. Just glares, says nothing at all, even when Hawke tries to make comment on the shop and the weather and the prospect of the journey ahead.

The city is a lazy midday doze while they plod out, horses stretching their necks down and taking long, languid steps. Fenris does not hurry them until they are on dirt, and even then it is not much of a hurry, just a steady trot that reminds Hawke how long it has been since he was on a horse.

‘I take it you do this sort of thing often?’ he asks, resorting to small-talk to break the silence.

‘Often enough,’ says Fenris.

He does not elaborate, and Hawke grows irritated.

‘Do you still hate me?’

‘Should I not?’

‘No!' It's more a whine than a yell. 'We were best friends, once.’

‘Once,’ Fenris says, pointedly.

‘How many times do I have to apologise?’

‘I should leave you behind, to have you know how it feels.’

They ride a little longer in silence. Hawke is bristling, but guilty, and wishes he knew what to do to fix it all in one swoop.

‘I haven’t asked how you started in this business,' he asks, hesitantly. 

‘It was Anso who put me onto it, actually,’ says Fenris. ‘I wrote and asked if he knew of any work. He knows a friend of Mahdon.’

‘Took it up wanting a quieter life?’

‘Ah, you’ve only seen the city. It gets rough, out here.’

The road is pleasant, and populated enough that they are never quite alone. The wind makes beautiful tall trees ripple with whispers, and the land rolls out around them like a painting. It does not look rough.

Hawke gives him such a look that has Fenris chuckling in return, a noise that warms Hawke to the core.

‘I am a lone elf carrying rare and expensive items long distances on unpatrolled roads. My reputation is growing, but I am still prepared for trouble.’

Even armoured and with a sword he doesn’t look like much at all, and Hawke wonders how many unsuspecting vagabonds have attacked thinking him to be an easy target.

‘Not alone today,’ Hawke points out, and Fenris goes quiet but he does smile a little, so at least Hawke has not forced them another step apart with the comment. He coaxes a little more from Fenris, even an unembellished tale of one of his more adventurous moments hunting a book. His speech is just as it ever was, unembarrassed and blunt, jokes accidental and emotions obvious. 

Hawke loves him. He loves him, and wants never to leave him. 

When they come into the horseyard of a tavern Fenris is greeted by name, and the mare steps over to a trough without needing guidance. Hawke dismounts with less certainty, but willing to bully his way into familiarity.

Fenris and the boy talk, Fenris unhooks his saddlebags, and the boy looks at Hawke in question.

‘Ferelden,’ Fenris explains.

‘Oh, I see. Welcome to Orlais,’ says the boy, but it’s not without a familiar sneer, scorn for the doglords still common across the mountains.

The keeper nods at Fenris, her busy cleaning tables ready for the evening’s business. Fenris nods hello, and and jumps so he can lean over the bar, stomach precariously balancing him so he can reach for a key down behind the bar. Hawke opens his mouth to ask about his own room, and then closes it. A problem to be dealt with later, and perhaps in his favour. Instead, he takes a bottle, gesturing with it at the keeper to make sure she knows, and that it's alright. She rolls her eyes and he chuckles; it seems Fenris' habits are known here. 

Content with a bottle of wine on the balcony above the bar, Fenris stretches his feet out onto a stool.

‘Come here often?’ Hawke teases, sitting down.

‘Yes. A frequent road, for me.’ And then, welcome but unexpected, he fills their glasses and offers conversation of his own. ‘What have you been doing for the past year?’

‘Bit of this, bit of that. Nothing quite so wholesome or meaningful.’ He toys with his glass, unsure how to word the timeline. ‘After you left -’

‘I left?’

‘After I left you,’ he says, and hates how it sounds in his voice, how it feels on his tongue. ‘We went north, to Hasmal.’ Close enough to Tevinter that the scowl over Fenris’ face is unsurprising. ‘Anders thought Nevarra would be safer for him than anywhere else, but a few mages along the way convinced him to go south.’

‘Orlais?’

‘Val Chevin, and from there to Jeder.’

‘Homewards,’ says Fenris, and Hawke smiles a little.

‘Yes, but no. I don’t think Ferelden can ever be my home again.’ He wants to explain that so long as Fenris lives in Val Royeaux he can never live on the other side of the mountains, but he suspects such a declaration will not be taken kindly. He drinks. ‘Isabela kept with the ship we took across the Waking Sea, and Merrill to the Dales. Anders was not doing well.’ An understatement, and he drinks to chase that memory away. Fenris refills his glass, both of them emptied and far too soon in the evening. ‘I wanted to find someone who could release Justice. Anders did, when he was proper himself. The rest of the time…’

‘Death would have been merciful.’

‘Yes,’ Hawke agrees, and hates himself for it. ‘We were still being hunted. He insisted on departing from me, and I insisted he not.’ Fenris gives a sour expression and Hawke realises what he’s said. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s done,’ Fenris says, with such finality that Hawke almost expects to be commanded to leave. When he is not, he continues on.

‘I’d found a hedgemage, but he said it was impossible, and, well. I think if he could not then no one can.’ A long drink, at that, and sorrow thick in his mouth.

‘Where is Anders now?’

‘I don’t know. Last I saw he was in a town near the Frostback Mountains. Safe enough, I think, but with the war brewing I worry what Justice will entice him to do.’

‘And Sebastian?’

‘No word. Rumour, only, but nothing anyone can tell me for sure.’

‘I thought he was you. When people said someone was searching for me, I thought it was him.’

‘He would have received a warmer welcome, I think.’

‘Yes,’ Fenris agrees.

‘You don’t talk to him?’

Fenris shrugs. Drinks. Their cups are empty again. ‘He doesn’t talk to me. I didn’t kill Anders,’ he explains. ‘I understand Sebastian’s motivations, but Anders is still my friend.’

‘Is he?’

‘He was,’ Fenris amends. ‘Hard to call someone a friend when they destroy your home in the name of all that has ever harmed you.’

A little heady from the wine and the guilt, Hawke is grateful for the interruption of dinner, the same meal repeated twice over and what seems to be standing order from Fenris. He and the woman exchange pleasantries, and their glasses are refilled, a fresh bottle of wine set between them. A moment later the woman returns with cards, and after a meal had in silence Fenris deals a game and their conversation turns to things without so much history or consequence.

They drink more, and more, enough that Hawke feels comfortably loose-limbed, and when they deal another round of cards his hand brushes Fenris’, and Fenris does not jerk away offended.

‘Is this what you usually do?’ Hawke asks. ‘Drinks and cards with handsome men?’

Fenris laughs, belly to throat so that he rocks a little his seat. ‘I forgot how little you’ve changed. You’ve been so well behaved.’

‘Should I leer a little more?’

‘I haven’t caught you looking at my arse as often.’

‘Maybe I’ve learned to be sneaky.’

‘You? Never,’ Fenris retorts.

‘Is it what you usually do?’ Hawke presses. 

‘Jealous?’

‘Infinitely,’ he admits. And then, because he’s drunk enough to feel poetic instead of stupid, he says, ‘I came here because Aveline just bought a house, and that was always the dream. Refugee boy just wants a place to call home. And I missed you. This is me, coming home.’

Fenris has raised an eyebrow and Hawke feels suddenly stupid, but he persists. He always persists in the face of idiotic ideas.

‘I wanted to apologise. I was awful, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, and I don’t know how to make it up to you. I want to. I’ll do anything. You have to know that, I’ll do anything at all.’

While he is talking Fenris has stood up, and Hawke looks up at him with confusion.

‘Where are you going?’ he asks.

‘You’re coming,’ says Fenris.

One bed, Hawke remembers, when they are far enough along the hallway that turning downstairs for a different key would be a trek.

‘I didn’t get my own room,’ he apologises.

‘I know,’ says Fenris. He’s a little sly about it, and Hawke grins, and takes the invitation for what it is. He shoves Fenris against the wall before they have even reached their room, and Fenris grins at him.

‘Familiar,’ he says. ‘Are you going to carry me to bed, as well?’

‘Yes,’ Hawke says, voice not his own, voice a growl, and he presses his whole body against Fenris’ and kisses him with teeth and tongue. Fenris tastes like he remembers and different all over, wine familiar but an edge there that Hawke cannot place.

He fumbles one-handed with the key, and lifts Fenris with the other. Legs around his hips and together they stumble into the room. The bed is soft, and welcoming, and Hawke is eager to remind himself more of who Fenris is.

It is only after, half asleep and not quite cuddling, that Hawke thinks to ask.

‘Is this forgiveness?’

Fenris’ hand, tracing small circles over an arrow scar on his shoulder, stills a moment. ‘You think you deserve that?’

Hawke licks the stale taste away from his teeth and swallows through a dry throat. ‘I think it’s inevitable.’

The wrong thing to say. Fenris rolls over, rolls away. ‘You hurt me,’ said Fenris, voice sharp as a dagger in the darkness, and that is their goodnight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! 
> 
> To the original prompter: I hope this is what you wanted when you asked, and that you've enjoyed it. Thank you, it's been fun to write.  
> To everyone who's been commenting: thank you a million times over, your words kept me encouraged both for this and other things I've been writing, and I will forever love fanfiction for the support people give you ♥♥

Fenris wakes feeling groggy in his head, mouth sour and stale, and body tacky with dried sweat, bedcovers too warm with two bodies beneath them. Hawke has his arm flung out to brush Fenris’, but beyond that they are not touching. Hawke with most of the bed at his command, sprawled face down, and for a moment Fenris feels a bit of tender amusement at how little has changed over the years. 

He slides out of bed, feeling a little embarrassed while he searches for his clothes. Overeager, putting the cart before the horse. A good night, but a drunken night. 

His side feels bare without Hawke’s crest on his hip, but he’s not worn it since he knew it was Hawke who came to the city. Proud to wear the token, but only so long as Hawke wasn’t there to make presumptions about what it means. He wishes the night before had not happened but he cannot find it within himself to regret it. Skin roughened by Hawke’s touch, but wasn’t that always the way. Could never let him near for long without everything irrevocably changing. 

And perhaps he wanted it to. Hawke has been doing his best to remain within the bounds of social convention, but Fenris cannot deny that it hasn’t been at least a bit fun having him around again. Like a mildly disobedient puppy you can’t help but love, always pulling on the leash but Maker, you just want to to where he’s going just to find out what the destination is. 

They can reach Val Fermin while there is still light so long as they leave soon, and rather than deal with that interaction Fenris sends a maid to wake Hawke while he readies the horses. The horses are kind, and nuzzle him in a friendly fashion. 

‘Morning,’ says Hawke. Voice rough. Close enough that Fenris tenses, air heavy between them. 

‘We should move on,’ he replies, and finishes cinching the girth. Hawke makes a sad little noise that Fenris ignores. He has no desire for more conversation, for any comments about the night before, apologies or hopes for a repetition. 

He isn’t sure what he’d say.

He double checks that the books are suitably wrapped, and away they go. 

By midmorning it has begun to rain, and by midday they are in a storm so vile they knock on a poor farmer’s door asking for shelter. 

Love isn’t a weakness, but Fenris has spent a lot of time on people who have treated him abominably. Easy to forget, what with Hawke dripping water from his hair and his nose, beard gone awry from the rain and shaking a little with a chill. Easy, too, to forget that this is the man who fought in Fenris’ name, who lamented the lack of token to wear in return, who refused to let anyone know he wasn’t besotted. Useless in love, Isabela had teased, but they hadn’t been. They’d been fierce as fire. 

‘We’re not going to make good time, are we?’ Hawke says, and he looks so miserable that Fenris laughs, and shoves a blanket at him. They huddle in the farmer’s kitchen until the worst of it is gone, and then back out into the dribbling rain to find proper lodging before the night. 

And here, they run into trouble. Fenris asks for two rooms. Hawke gives him a look like he’s just been kicked, and when Fenris is safe away Hawke knocks on the door but walks right in. 

‘Why knock if you’re not going to wait?’ Fenris asks. The fire is going and he has his shirt and trousers draped over a chair to dry them, and he is left in nothing but his spare shirt which is scarcely long enough to drape so low as his thighs. He feels vulnerable, which always makes him argumentative. 

Hawke is still dressed in his wet clothes, and his footsteps leave puddles behind on the wood. ‘You’re being mean to me.’

‘You’re here to talk about your feelings?’

‘Yes,’ says Hawke, never able to be cowed by embarrassment, never bullied into shyly pretending less. Him and Fenris alike in that, wearing it all on their sleeves. ‘I love you. Why don’t you love me back?’

‘You fail to realise that one action can ruin it all,’ Fenris retorts, and finishes hanging his coat along the foot of the bed. 

‘We had years together. I always intended to come to you, once Anders was safe.’ Fenris is shaking his head. He feels hot, angry, bullied into a corner and trapped. He knows this feeling. ‘We had fun last night,’ Hawke says, ‘and I’ve enjoyed your company. How can I fix it?’

‘Go back in time,’ Fenris snaps, and Hawke quiets a minute as if that is a real solution. 

‘I can’t,’ Hawke says. ‘You know I can’t. If you aren’t going to forgive me then I will leave you in the morning, and that will be it. I don’t want to -’

‘And I’m meant to care what you want?’

‘Yes. You did once.’

‘And so did you.’

‘I do care. I care what you want, which is why I’m here.’ He’s whining. 

‘Then go away,’ says Fenris. He folds his arms over his chest. ‘I didn’t ask for you back. I loved you, and you didn’t trust me.’

‘And you’ll never forgive me?’

He almost says, of course I will. Of course I’ll forgive you, I already have. He bites his tongue and swallows, and says, ‘Why should I?’

‘We were good together.’ Hawke takes a step forward, hands out, but Fenris takes one back, out of his reach. ‘We were so good together. Not the big things, but, everything. Maker, I can’t even have breakfast without remembering you. Can you forgive me?’

Hawke is bedraggled, shirt sticking to skin and coat sagging off his shoulders. His cheeks and nose are red from the sudden heat of the fire. Fenris had wanted to marry him. When Aveline had married Donnic, Fenris had mentioned it to Merrill, neither of them quite sure of the life they’d stumbled into, uncertain they were allowed the opportunities naturally afforded humans. If he had asked, would Hawke have still left? 

Not the question, not the focus; what’s done is done. 

‘You hurt me,’ is what Fenris says. 

‘And you want me to hurt the same?’

‘It would make things even.’

Silence, and Fenris watches as Hawke chews the inside of his cheek, considering. 

‘If you do forgive me, and I move to Orlais to live with you - I can’t do that if you’re going to have this hanging over our heads forever. I can’t be with you if you’ll deny me anything you like to make me hurt the same.’

‘You, in Orlais?’ Fenris scoffs. His heart is pounding. 

Hawke gestures around them. ‘Where are we now?’

‘You’d have to learn the language.’

‘I can speak a little,’ Hawke says. 

‘You can’t -’ Fenris begins.

‘I’ll learn. I want to learn so I will. Nothing is keeping me anywhere else. The only place I want to be is with you.’ He takes another step. Fenris takes another one back, the wall behind stopping him from getting any further away. ‘I know you, and you don’t ever do anything until you can’t do anything else. You retreat and retreat until you feel safe enough to make your fight.’

‘So you’re bullying me.’

‘I want an answer. I don’t want to wait years on it.’ He kindly does not say ‘again’. If he had, Fenris would have walked out and never seen him again. But he didn’t, so perhaps he is learning. ‘Can’t we try?’

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. He wants to be kind, wants to give Hawke want he wants, but doesn’t know if he should. Doesn’t know if he’ll want to backtrack that decision later. And a small part of him wants to say yes just to crush it down into pieces, even though he isn’t the sort of person to dole out wanton cruelty. 

He doesn’t say anything at all.

‘Sleep on it,’ Hawke says. His voice is soft and cracks a little. ‘Tell me in the morning.’

 

.

 

Fenris does not sleep on it. He lies in bed so restless that he goes down to the stable to be with the horses, who wake at his presence and tiredly request scratches. He asks them what he should do, and one whickers at him, and the other huffs and turns around to sleep.

The question is really very simple: does he want to see Hawke ever again, or does he not? And the answer is yes, he does, and desperately. If this is the last day he will ever see Hawke it has been wasted on inconsequential things. If this is the last day, he would fight whoever is stopping them ever seeing each other again. If he went up to find Hawke gone he would hunt him down. This cannot be it. This cannot be all.

In the end, Fenris does not sleep on it. It’s late enough that the sky is greying over the eastern horizon, stars weak against the faint promise of dawn, and he does not knock on Hawke’s door. It is unlocked, and Hawke would do the same in return, so he walks right in. 

Hawke snorts awake, confused and his first words are a mumbled ‘whozit?’

Fenris sits on the edge of his mattress. He wanted to stride right in and kiss him, but knows that might be misconstrued, given the events of the previous evening. 

A hand grasps his roughly, traces up his wrist. ‘Fenris?’

His heart lifts to know that Hawke can identify him by touch alone. ‘I’ve decided.’

‘It’s morning?’ Hawke fumbles up out of the blankets. His hair is mussed, chest bare. 

‘Near enough. I want you to stay.’

The hand grips his arm tighter. Hawke’s fingers aren’t quite long enough to encircle his arm, but he tries. ‘Too early to joke.’

‘I’m not leaving Orlais. I like my job. I have friends. And they’re not all going to be your friends,’ he warns, still unable to consider Hawke at the bar with his elvish friends.

‘I’ll find my own friends,’ says Hawke. ‘And I’ll buy a house.’

‘I don’t want to move in with you,’ Fenris adds, though he thinks that is not going to be a clause in effect for long. 

‘I’ll buy a house anyway. I’ll get a dog.’ A softening grip that slides down to caress his knuckles, stroke over his palm and curl over his fingers. ‘I can stay?’

Fenris lets out a breath. He is certain, nearly entirely certain. ‘Yes.’

‘I love you. I’m sorry.’

Fenris sits on the edge of Hawke’s bed in the dark and holds his hand. ‘I know you are. I love you, too.’

‘We’re okay?’

A vindictive part of Fenris has not let it go, and probably never will. He won’t promise that, but he will promise to keep it to himself. ‘We’re okay,’ he says. ‘I want you with me.’


End file.
